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<title>Command Me To Be Well: After The Stagecoach by Prismatic Bell (Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26578018">Command Me To Be Well: After The Stagecoach</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor/pseuds/Prismatic%20Bell'>Prismatic Bell (Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Working at an Amusement Park - Girl_from_the_crypt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Queer Character of Color, Gen, M/M, Queer Themes, Reconciliation, Recovery, Religious Discussion, Self-Indulgent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:48:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,611</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26578018</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor/pseuds/Prismatic%20Bell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nathan--now Michael--ends up going home.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dale/Nathan (Working at an Amusement Park)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Command Me To Be Well: After The Stagecoach</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It surprises a lot of people, finding out I’m still a Christian after everything that’s happened to me. I guess between the fairies and the getting kicked out thing they assume I should call it all a crock of shit.</p><p>And maybe it is, but it’s my crock of shit, and just because somebody’s a preacher doesn’t mean they’re right.</p><p>Which is how I ended up back in a building I thought I’d never be in again, sitting in the third pew from the front with my head down and my hands folded between my knees, hoping somebody was hearing me. I don’t know why I decided it had to be my dad’s church. Maybe just because it’s familiar. After seventeen years the carpet was new and they finally replaced the pulpit—that thing was old even before my dad took the church—but I still knew the windows and the piano and every echo and shadow by heart. If I’d woken up in there with no idea how long I’d been out, I still would’ve known it was August because the pictures on the Sunday school board were all Noah and the ark.</p><p>Time doesn’t actually change you, it just puts down a new layer on top, like sand on bones.</p><p>“Can I help you?”</p><p>I’d know that voice anywhere, too. My dad was born to be either a preacher or a movie trailer voiceover. He sounds kind of like James Earl Jones and Morgan Freeman had a baby and then handed the baby a Bible. I looked up.</p><p>“I just came to pray.”</p><p>He didn’t recognize me.</p><p>I don’t know why I was surprised. He last saw me half my lifetime ago, when I still had acne and a full-on tumble of curls and one of those pathetic peach-fuzz mustaches you only see on teenage boys who stare at it endlessly in the mirror waiting for it to get thicker. I almost don’t recognize me, when I look at old pictures. </p><p>But it still hurt.</p><p>“This is a good place for it, but the Lord can hear you from everywhere. You don’t have to come to Him. He’ll come to you.”</p><p>“That might be true, but I’m human and sometimes I need help feeling listened to.”</p><p>My dad has this kind of deep-in-the-belly chuckle, and he let it out then. “I suppose that’s true for a lot of people.” He sat down next to me. “What do you have on your mind?”</p><p>In a totally different world, he would’ve known already. There would’ve been a party and happy crying and people trying to send us home with way too much food. But this isn’t that world.</p><p>“I’m getting married.”</p><p>He made one of those noises that isn’t really a word but kind of means <em> I heard you and I’m paying attention. </em> “I don’t see many people come in alone for that kind of occasion.”</p><p>“My fiancé’s agnostic.” I took a deep breath. This was the part where I’d get thrown out. Coming in the first place was stupid. I knew fifteen years ago I didn’t belong here. “He’s one of those ‘I don’t care if you believe it, just don’t argue with me about it’ kinds of people.”</p><p>I’m pretty sure the time that passed between me saying it and my dad speaking again was actually just a normal pause between people, but it felt about three years long. He made this kind of contemplative hum.</p><p>“I see.” Another pause. I waited for him to tell me to get out. “And what is his name?”</p><p>“Dale.” He startled it out of me. I would’ve told him anyway, it’s not like it’s a big secret—to other human beings, anyway—but I might have asked why he cared. “I’m Michael.”</p><p>He made another one of those <em> I’m listening </em>noises. “And what do you find on your heart, Michael?”</p><p>I didn’t mean to word vomit all over him, but I’ve never been good at keeping secrets.</p><p>“I don’t have anybody to talk to about it. I mean, friends and stuff, yeah, but I got kicked out when I was sixteen. I’m pretty sure my dad would’ve rather shared a dinner table with Jeffrey Dahmer than a bunch of gay people. What if I screw it up? What if we end up like one of those married couples who live at opposite ends of the house and never talk? What if I’m setting our kid up for misery by shaking things up? I know I want it. I know <em> he </em> wants it. But—" I didn’t mean to cry, either, but that’s just how I roll sometimes. “What if we’re both wrong?”</p><p>I’ve never seen my dad look like somebody punched him before, but I did then. He just stayed quiet while I wiped my face. </p><p>“The greatest problem I see in young couples today, Michael, is that they don’t understand you don’t stay in love forever. Sooner or later the hard times come and you fall out of it. But the key to a good relationship isn’t to stay in love. It’s to know that when you fall out of it, you can work together to fall back into it, instead of giving up on each other.”</p><p>“We’ve already done that. It’s a really long story. But I needed him to step up and be a man instead of a doormat. And he did. I don’t think either of us regret it.”</p><p>“Then you already have the tools to ensure you don’t become one of those couples who live on opposite ends of the house and never talk.”</p><p>I just kind of looked down at my hands. He put one of his own on my shoulder.</p><p>“That isn’t the only thing bothering you.”</p><p>I sat for awhile before looking back up at him.</p><p>“Everything I’ve ever seen with my own eyes says there’s no reason two men can’t get married and stay married and be happy and have a good marriage. But what if I’m kidding myself?”</p><p>“Is there a reason you think you’re ‘kidding yourself,’ or is it just some of those old misguided ghosts?”</p><p>I just kind of stared at him. I’ve never heard my dad even suggest a parent might be misguided before. He reached for the Bible sitting in the book holder on the pew in front of him. </p><p>“We see early in Genesis that we are intended for companionship,” he said. “Genesis 2:18 tells us that the Lord looked at Adam and said ‘it is not good that man should be alone’. We take that verse so often to mean man and woman, and nothing else. But the truth, Michael, is that nowhere in that verse does it say woman, although it is followed with the creation of Eve. It says ‘helpmate.’ The Bible tells us man required a companion—not necessarily an opposite number.” He flipped the Bible open and paged through before handing it to me. “Psalms 139 offers praise to the Lord and says ‘I am fearfully and wonderfully made’. Now if we know that we are made, fearfully and wonderfully, in the image of the Lord, who makes no mistakes, and we know that He intended for his creation to seek love and companionship, what does that tell us about you?”</p><p>I thought about it for a second. Then I shook my head and shrugged. He closed the Bible in my hand.</p><p>“If the scientists are correct, Michael, then to prefer one sex over the other is fixed at birth, and there is no changing it. If that is true, then what this tells us is that you are no different from Adam himself. Seeking not the unnatural perversion we are warned against in Romans, but your helpmate, as men have done since the world began. And this desire for love and companionship comes from the Lord. You say your relationship is strong enough to have already weathered a serious storm and come out the stronger for it. What do you see in all this that speaks to you of an inability to have a loving and committed marriage?”</p><p>I started crying again. It was that kind of conversation. You get it.</p><p>My dad just kind of waited until I was done. There are boxes of Kleenex in the pews because sometimes people get a little bit too into giving testimony, and he handed me one so I could blow my nose. I started laughing. Just a little. At my age you’d think I’d either have learned to stop being a crybaby or to stop being embarrassed by it, but nope to both. </p><p>“Sorry. I, uh.” I let out that laugh again. I was pretty sure I sounded like a lunatic, but if I did, it didn’t show on his face. “I’ve never heard anything like that in church before.”</p><p>“We are, all of us, learning, all of the time. There’s always more to be found in Scripture.” He sighed. It hit me for the first time his hair was salt-and-pepper instead of black. I didn’t remember the lines around his eyes, either. “My own lesson was harsh, and at my own hand, and if I have any consolation it is that, having learned it, I may spare others from pain. What I have told you is no less than what I wish I had told my son, many years ago.” He held out a hand before I could say anything. “Shall we pray?”</p><p>I took his hand. His hair got lighter and his laugh lines got deeper, but his grip hadn’t changed a bit. It was still exactly the same as it was when I was thirteen and watching him doing a soul-saving at a tent revival. He clasped his hands together over mine and closed his eyes, and I bent my head. </p><p>If you’ve ever heard a really good preacher get really into a prayer, you know how compelling they can be. Whatever else my dad is or isn't, he’s always been way more than just a “really good” preacher. The next few minutes we sat in that pew were an endless outpouring of thanks—that I was there, that Dale and I had found each other, that we meant to make a family—and petitions: understanding, clarity, and that old evangelical standby, that “we might come to understand the fullness of His love.” You’ve heard that one if you’ve ever heard the kind of prayer I’m talking about. If you’ve never been in a Black church you might’ve never heard the kind of prayer that sprinkles in “amen” every few sentences, but if you have, you know the last “amen” is always louder and way more emphatic and, if you’re holding a preacher’s hand, usually comes with having your arm shaken for emphasis. When I opened my eyes again I felt like I could actually smile for real.</p><p>“Thanks.” I sat up and heard my back pop. I made a face, and my dad let out that kind of low-belly chuckle again. “I don’t think my spine liked it much, but.....it helped. A lot more than I thought it would when I walked in. Actually.”</p><p>He smiled at me. “Then may that peace go with you when you leave. And maybe we’ll see you in here again.”</p><p>I nodded. Then I checked my phone. “I should get going. Dale dropped me off on his way to get the oil changed in the truck, he’s probably on his way back by now.”</p><p>He offered me a hand out of the pew. I was halfway to the door before he spoke again.</p><p>“Michael.”</p><p>I turned around. “Yes, Pastor?”</p><p>“I have prayed every day for fifteen years the Lord would forgive me and bring you back home.”</p><p>I stared at him. He just looked back at me. </p><p>“I am so very sorry. For my pride, and for causing you such pain.”</p><p>There are times in life where I feel like being a crybaby is a totally normal reaction. This was definitely one of them.</p><p>My dad’s never been a big hugger, but a few seconds after I put my hands over my face I felt him put his arms around me and squeeze. I had to pick between letting him see me crying again and not hugging him back, so finally I said screw it and put my arms around him. </p><p>“Mickey?”</p><p>Dale’s voice in a church is one of those things I never expected to hear, but it honestly didn’t even register enough for me to let go and explain. I just kind of waved a hand behind me to let him know I was okay and went back to hugging my dad for all I was worth. It’s easy to say you don’t care when your parents aren’t right in front of you, but something about one of those hugs takes it all away.</p><p>I finally let go because I had to breathe. My dad’s hugs are as big as his voice, when he gives them. It’s kind of funny, actually—I mostly take after my mom, but I definitely got the voice from my dad’s side of the family, and watching people’s faces when I open my mouth and they get something they were <em> not </em> expecting from someone this small never gets old. He gave me a pat on the shoulder and dropped his hands.</p><p>“My ride’s here,” I said, because I had to say <em> something. </em> </p><p>“So I hear.” He looked up, and I didn’t see his eyebrows go up, but I felt it happen. You know what I mean.</p><p>“Yes, he’s white, give me another ten seconds before you kick us out.”</p><p>“And are you the kind of white man who demands my son pretend to be a white man, or the kind who respects where he came from?”</p><p>“He’s the kind of white man who can tell you exactly what Kwanzaa is about and got me my kinara but still can’t spell it.” I finally looked up at Dale. Madeleine was next to him, and when she saw my face her mouth dropped open and she came running to hug my waist. She almost knocked me on my ass doing it, too. It’s incredible how much growth a kid can do in a year and a half. Her pediatrician is part of a network that works with the Fixers, and said a lot of it is the difference in nutrition between 1947 and now.</p><p>“You’re <em> crying, </em>” she said, and she sounded so upset I thought she might start crying herself. I picked her up.</p><p>“It’s okay, sometimes when you feel a lot of things all at once your brain doesn't know what to do with it and goes ‘forget all <em> this </em>’ and just makes you cry so it can dump a bunch of feelings chemicals and quit dealing with it.” I kissed her forehead. “I’m not sad. But thank you for the hugs.” </p><p>“If I can give myself a defense, Leah says I misspell Halloween, too.” Dale sounded sheepish.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s true, he does,” I said. “Let’s go with a solid ‘he tries really hard’.”</p><p>“Then I will withhold judgment.”</p><p>I shifted Madeleine onto my hip so I could cross the few steps to Dale’s side and take his hand before looking back. “We’ve got to get the kiddo home and fed before she starts getting cranky.”</p><p>“Yes.” My dad paused. “Michael. I assume that’s your name now.”</p><p>“Yeah. It’s a long story. But I like it.”</p><p>“Perhaps you’d tell it to me another time?”</p><p>Dale squeezed my hand. I squeezed back.</p><p>“Sounds like a plan.”</p><p>
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